













Class 

Book 


. U 7 4-~P4 


GofpgM"_ i ^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

















































































































































































































































































































































































■ 

































































































































POSSESSIONS OP A SKY PILOT 







POSSESSIONS 
OF A SKY PILOT 


BY 

HARRY ELMORE HURD 



BOSTON 

THE POUR SEAS COMPANY 
1923 


Copyright, 1923, by 

The Four Seas Company 



The Four Seas Press 
Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 


MAY-7'23 

©C1A704980 

.,-yU) t , 



To 

Jennie Lugene Hurd 
My Mother 

Lovliest locks of flaxen hair, 

Streaks of gray but not less fair, 
Clearest vision, bluest eyes, 

Shining soul behind them lies. 

Firmest lips form sweetest mouth, 

Mark love warm as sunny south. 

Finest features, purest face, 

Clearly chiseled as a Grace, 

Brightest brain, clear master-mind, 
Tenderest heart around me wind. 
Whitest soul and stainless life, 

Christian, teacher, worker, wife, 

Angel of Earth, I know no other. 

Gently I breathe her name—My Mother. 


POSSESSIONS OF A SKY PILOT 


“I never list presume on Parnasse hill, 

But piping low in shade of lowly grove 
I play to please myself, all be it ill.” 

Edmund Spenser did not place his name upon 
the title-page of The Shepherd's Calendar, but 
signed “Immerito”—the Undeserving. It was his 
conviction that poetry is not to “be gotten by 
laboure and learning*’ but gained by gift. 

Whatever merit these rude rhymes possess, it 
is not the labored metering of “the Areopagus,” 
but the spontaneous singing of a stirred soul— 

I’m just a poet-preacher and loving is my trade. 

If the reader shares the poet’s possessions, sees 
the paintings starred in earth’s gallery, walks the 
rutted road at evening smelling the flowers, hears 
the twittering swifts and the wis-ss-h of the wind, 
sits by the swirling tide and catches the wonder 
of the weeds, the gulls, the salt odor and the 
rainbow hues, and better still, if the reader learns 
to squat by the fire, to hear the heart-calls in the 
city and to see God in every uncommon common 
bush, we shall be satisfied. 

Harry Elmore Hurd 


Quincy, 1923. 


CONTENTS 


Possessions. 

A Painting. 

Lovers . 

Blue Jay. 

Automobile Gypsies 
Wet Woods .... 

Chicory. 

The Seamy Side . 
Beautifying the Bruises 
The River .... 
Evening . . . 

Immigrants .... 

A Pagan's Prayer . 

The White Lady Slipper 
Rain and Pain . . . 

Odors. 

Mr. Toad. 

Mr. Crow .... 
The Miracle of the Clod 

The Sea. 

Squatters by the Sea . 
The Stranded Scow . 
Gull Moods .... 
The Wind .... 
Explorers .... 

The Fog. 

Mud and Slime . 

Stranded Ships . 

Seas and Souls . . . 

The Tide .... 

Conflict. 

The New Year . 

Easter. 


ii 

13 

14 

15 

16 

18 

19 

20 

21 

22 

23 

24 

25 

27 

28 

29 

30 

3i 

32 

34 

35 

36 

37 

38 

39 

40 

4i 

42 

43 

44 

45 

46 

47 



































Red Rose. 

Autumn. 

Thanksgiving. 

Lucky Boy . 

Father. 

Shadows. 

The Heartache in the City . 

The Park. 

Baby. 

Soldier Stuff. 

Madonna . 

Jake. 

The Guide. 

“Her Tramp”. 

Time, the Thief . 

Saint Peter and the Plates . 
Under the Stacks . 

The Toiler. 

Our Canoe. 

“Lookie Locks”. 

The Summit. 

Whitman at Evening . . . 

“Guess I Got Tm!” . . . . 

Those Who Pay . . . . 

Jim. 

The Captain. 

Having My Picture “Took” . 

Arrow-Head. 

“Stick It”. 

Sky Pilots. 

Our Colors. 

Roses and Chrysanthemums . 

His Return. 

Jusqu' At) Bout. 


48 

49 

50 

5 i 

52 

53 

55 

56 

57 

58 

59 

60 

61 

62 

63 

64 

66 

6 7 

68 

69 

71 

72 

73 

74 

76 

78 

79 

80 

81 

83 

84 

85 

86 

87 



































POSSESSIONS OF A SKY PILOT 




POSSESSIONS 


I’m just a poet-preacher and loving is my trade, 

Of earthly pelf I none possess, no stuff for time 
to fade, 

I have no business, dwelling great, no motor car 
or horse, 

I have to figure close and sharp, else balance 
shows a loss. 

But I possess the woods and pools, for these alone 
I long, 

The flowers and fields and birds and sky and 
beauteous sylvan song. 

Let other men lay claim to land, to blocks and 
shops and gold, 

This preacher-man will only wish these lovelier 
things to hold. 

I’m just a poet-preacher and loving is my trade, 

I love old Stubbie mud and all, to loaf beneath 
the shade, 

I love the log drowned in the murk, shrub-pictures 
in the pool, 

Musician-pines with uncut hair, weeds where 
tadpoles school. 

Here as a lad I loved to sprawl and sport and 
swim and skate, 

To bait the frogs and fry their legs and burn my 
campfire late. 

By slimy, silent, sylvan shore, as man, I sit and 
think 

Of boyhood joys with rod and gun, of hours by 
Stubbie’s brink. 

And as I dream, upon a tree I see a Trespass 

sign, _ . 

Placed there by man who claims as his, God s 
property divine. 


[Hi 


A flicker drumming in a tree shrieks out his siren 
talk, 

A warbler “tseeing” ’mid the leaves would the 
possessor balk. 

I’m just a poet-preacher and loving is my trade, 

Of silly trespass signs, my friends, I’m not the 
least afraid. 

I claim the rocks and hills and flowers and pool 
by old domain, 

The earth and sky and songs of birds with me 
shall all remain. 

Down in my soul I keep them all, their beauty 
I possess, 

No “Owner” now can steal my woods, by law or 
by duress! 


[ 12 ] 


A PAINTING 


Throw in a road winding up to a gate, 

Bars in a fence where cattle come late, 

A brown, ribbon pathway of grass or of sand, 
Bordered by alders and acres of land. 

A wall wandering near it where daisies peek over, 
While ox-eyes and asters wade knee-deep in 
clover. 

A patient cow tinkles her bell on the hill, 

Out yonder a brook winds its way to the mill. 
Where sky meets the summits stand musical pines 
Nodding in rhythm as the wind through them 
whines. 

The painting is domed with an indigo sky, 

With myriads of clouds like ships drifting by. 
Paint in the swallows, the Mayflies, a dragon, 

A ramshackle farmhouse and a weather-worn 
wagon. 

No artist am I, but I know a fine painting, 

And that at the road’s crook another is waiting. 


[13] 


LOVERS 


Two flowers kiss in a tulip bed, 

Tangled together and blushing red, 

Standing under the window, deep in the dirt, 
They have nothing to do but to wink and flirt. 
A Maiden Lady passing enviously by 
Called them “Lovers” and caused them to shy: 
They are parted after a day and a night; 

True lovers, they ended romance in a fight. 


BLUE JAY 


Men call you “Thieving Jay,” 

Bright bird of black-barred blue, 
Slander you well they may, 

Gay woodster of royal hue. 

Bad name you’ve earned, 
Bird-murderer, cruel thief, 

In wood crime deeply learned, 
Blood-stained beyond belief. 

I love you, flying rogue, 

With curdling woodland scream, 
Though to defame you is the vogue, 
Thou gorgeous, artist’s dream. 

Perhaps God has a part 
For rogues like you to play, 

His divine, gigantic heart 
Encircles even you to-day. 

I love those whom men call “worse,” 
Those who wander from the way, 
So I will not add my curse, 

I refuse to hate you, Jay! 


AUTOMOBILE GYPSIES 


Miles and miles of rusty, ribboned roads 
Rutted by iron horses and creaking country loads, 
Running arm-in-arm with rivers wearing velvet 
V’s, 

Luring to the peaks above the vales and trees. 
Crows mark cur passage from their treetops high, 
While goshawks scream and wheel the evening 
sky. 

Miles and miles of rusty, ribboned road 
Past tumbled farmhouses, Love’s old abode, 

Now gaunt, hollow windows face the street, 

Doors opened without fingers, thresholds unworn 
by feet, 

Speak of days once brimming full of life, 

Now silent tombs free from human strife. 

Miles and miles of rusty, ribboned road 
Past white shafts, marking Death’s abode, 

Holy places without priests, once wet with tears, 
Unvisited, uncut, unloved for years and years, 
The running, rusty, ribboned road rubs the sod 
Man forgets: this plot is marked by God. 

Miles and miles of rusty, ribboned road 
Past bald peaks, the Wind’s abode, 

Past ugly slash, bare as ships without masts, 
Stripped, stark, stranded by the wintry blasts, 
Rocky pates, charred slash and roadside sink 
Are beautified, transformed by fireweed pink. 

Miles and miles of rusty, ribboned road 
Past slender spires of Maine, Worship’s abode, 
Following fingers of water set with seines for fish, 
Sardine shacks, simple cottages, all Fish Folks 
wish, 


[16] 


Flags of fog hang tattered ribbons toward the 
sea, 

Gulls scream, the wind calls the wild in me. 

Miles and miles of rusty, ribboned road 
Past the wide world, God’s green abode; 

I want to go where the sun’s shield kisses the sea, 
I want to go where the wild wind whistles to me, 
I want to go where ships sail many salty miles, 

I want to go all the miles and miles with smiles. 


[17] 


WET WOODS 


My buddies choose pathways under the sun. 

Give me the wild wet woods for fun; 

The mellow flute tones of the nightingale 
Lure me along the swampy trail, 

The spruces are spangled with flashing pearls, 
The birches sway like graceful girls, 

The Spanish-moss-beards of the trees are wet, 
The balsams are sticky with fragrant sweat, 

The Maiden ferns cling to my legs as I wade 
Through carpets of green in the silent shade, 

The birds are moping, afraid of the thunder, 

The flowers and grasses are heavy with slumber, 
I am soaked like the vines and jewelled trees, 

But I feel akin to the birds and bees, 

Brother to bug and blade and beast; 

Give me the wilds that are wet for a woodsy feast. 


[18] 


CHICORY 


You are a weed, 

Farmers do not want you, 

You scatter prolific seed 
Bearing beauties who pass through 
The fields possessing them. 

Artists paint you, 

Ladies look with love 
Into your eyes of blue, 

Rivalling the sky above. 

You are possessed by poor men. 

I would be a weed 
Rooted in the field, 

If my spreading seed 
Might always beauty yield, 

Like chicory to gladden men. 


[19] 


THE SEAMY SIDE 


Man sets a trap—a chipmunk enters for food, 

A wary mink eats the prisoner, true to his brood. 
A lily blossoms pure, holy and white, 

On its virgin beauty, black, ugly bugs alight. 

A crippled fly drops wing-weary and torn, 
Splash! A trout leaps—the bug is gone. 

A blustery, belted kingfisher watches for fish, 
Splash! Gobble! The climax of a murder-wish. 
A rabbit browses in the hemlock bridal-lane, 

A hawk swoops like a plummet—the struggle is 
vain. 

Trees fight pests and birds fight bugs, 

Snakes fang birds and hawks tear the slimy thugs. 
Nature is plainly preaching that I may see 
Dark Death watching and waiting for me. 


[20] 


BEAUTIFYING THE BRUISES 

A lichen found a boulder crystallized from earth’s 
stew, 

And pitying its nakedness it grew a few 
Patches of frail green to cover its rocky face, 
Looking like a bridal veil of living lace. 

A '‘Maiden” found a soggy sink by the pathway’s 
turn 

And called her children to carpet it with fern. 

A flag of moss found a tree dead as a doornail 
And grew corpse-beards flapping like a free sail. 
Some velvety moss found a dear old tree on his 
face 

And glorified his rotting, resting place. 

Fingers of “Running Charlie” with pearl beads in 
the shade 

Crawled over a stump, hiding the scars of the 
blade. 

A spear of grass found a fresh grave, tear wet, 
And covered the mound, decorating it with 
blossoms of boneset. 

A million pine needles found a path of dust 
And made it a ribbon of richest rust. 

Shadows found a cathedral wood 
And softened it, caressed it, ’tis good! ’tis good! 
The wind found tomb-like silence and sung a 
lullaby, 

Luring the birds to their cradles under the starry 
sky. 

Lilies found a pool of slimy mud 

And grew a garden of glory on the flood. 

Likewise may my life give birth 

To beauty, when I find scars marring the earth. 


[ 21 ] 


THE RIVER 


What a wonderful thing is a river, 

A meandering, changing life-giver. 

To it come patient, bell-tinkling steer, 

The porcupine with ransomed nose, and deer, 
The lily tops are cropped by the moose, 

While nearby drops the tired, noisy goose. 

A wary, rat-eyed, slick-coated mink 
Crawls out on a mossy log to drink, 

The muskrat and beaver leave their wake, 

They are sacrificed for woman’s sake. 

The belted kingfisher plunges for fish, 

The great owl comes moved by the same wish. 
Into the oily surface looks the cardinal flower 
And the blue pickerel weed forms a bower. 

The river is full of surprise: 

The sudden flash and lightning rise 
Of the squaretail striking my fake fly, 

The flap of a frightened duck close by, 

The scud of shelldrake from the bank brush, 

The long, lean blue heron breaking the death 
hush. 

The tribute-collecting river lives for the sake 
Of the great, glistening, many-mooded lake, 
Sometimes peaceful, placid: sometimes scene of 
strife, 

But always tingling with life and more life. 

May my work and play be like a great river, 
Many-mooded, mild or mad, but always a life- 
giver. 


[ 22 ] 


EVENING 


When the sun the world is rimming, 

When the convoy clouds are skimming, 
When the Unseen Hand is brushing, 

When the heaven with red is blushing, 

When the hush of night is stealing, 

When the hawks in air are wheeling, 

When the crickets start their chirping, 
When the toilers quit their working, 

When the birds their prayers are saying, 
When the children stop their playing, 

When the clucking swifts are reeling, 

When the peace of eve is stealing, 

When the chilly dew is falling, 

When the owls start their calling, 

When the sleepy lamps are blinking, 

When the stars like eyes are winking, 

When the scenes of earth are shifting, 

When the prayers of babes are lifting, 

When the “Smelly” roads I’m walking, 
When the day is done, My Father’s talking. 


[23] 


IMMIGRANTS 


Plebeian birds of the city street, 

Immigrants from an old-world town, 

Dressed in faded coats of brown, 

Twittering and hopping on busy feet. 

Men do not love the foreign-born, 

The scavenging crews on the great highway, 
Men meet without saying hearty “Good Day,” 
For they feel above the distant-born. 

Quarrelsome strangers, marked like Cain, 
Inquisitive sparrows hard at your play, 
Though all men hate you, I dare to say 
Good morn, come again to my study pane. 


[24] 


A PAGAN’S PRAYER 

When I die please plant a tree 
Where its roots can feed on me, 

A fluted hemlock or musician pine 
Whispering winsomely their tunes divine, 

Or a prodigal shagbark tattered and torn 
Would be a truer symbol of man trouble-born. 

I don’t want a rock maple with scowling face 
To sadden the dead in my resting place, 

Nor a weeping willow my couch to soak, 

Give me rather the wind-toughened oak. 

I’d like the birches dressed in white 
To dance like ghosts on my chest at night, 

Or their yellow sisters peeled by the sun 
To add to my daily graveyard fun. 

The blotched maples and beeches may with 
propriety 

Form over me a leprous society. 

Let a poplar with Spanish-stained skin 
Or a red-Indian-cherry guard me from sin. 

A wrinkly ash or a soulful elm 

Would with beauty my friends overwhelm. 

Place a Puritan-capped cedar if you can 
Or a balsam medicine man. 

If I die in the South, plant a mummy-wrapped 
palm, 

In the North, may a spruce add its Christmas 
charm. 

Zoroaster’s trees were instinct with divine, 

Also Dodona’s oak and Pan’s pure pine, 

India’s banyan and Caduceus’ rod, 

Egypt’s fruit-bribed sycamore-prisoned God, 
Ireland’s hazel and Ethiopia’s fig hung with spears 
And stones and grass and blackened fears, 
Persia’s cypress and the stump at Mycenae’s gate, 
The mulberry oracle where David faced fate, 
Immortality’s symbol—the sacred yew, 
Scandinavia’s ash and elm; these are a few 
[ 25 ] 


Forms of man’s fear of the tree 
That I ask to have grow over me. 

Do not place me on olive bed 
As Sparta laid her honored dead, 

All I ask is, please plant a tree 
Where its roots will twine about me. 


[26] 


THE WHITE LADY SLIPPER 


I thought I was alone amid the mountains; 
Wading thigh-deep in the crystal fountains, 
Miles from man, I came upon a slipper white, 
Dropped by the Queen of Ladies in her fright. 

No one saw her but the sprucy spires, 

No voices whispered but the windy lyres, 

No laughter rang except the youthful river, 

No one played with her—this Beauty-Giver. 

Below, the snakes and worms slid by; 

Above, birds wheeled the azure sky; 

Wild beasts browsing near 
Did not fill her heart with fear. 

I am a man—why did you run away, my Queen? 
Why shed your sylvan virtues here unseen? 
Holding your slipper, I call to you. 

Is it Wind or Thee I hear? Woo, whoo! 

We men hear heaven’s silvery bells, 

And thus keep pure. But you, amid the dells 
Alone, win virtue’s stalwart fight, 

Because good is good and right is right. 


[27] 


RAIN AND PAIN 


Rain, rain, rain, 

Will it ever clear again? 

The wind-blown pellets drop 
Like clods on a coffin top. 

Rain, rain, rain, 

Will it ever clear again? 

The sea is inky black, 

The sky frowns blackly back. 

Pain, pain, pain, 

Shall we be free again? 

Ask broken brain or brawn, 

Or hearts torn with a thorn. 

Rain, rain, rain, 

Pain, pain, pain, 

The sun is spattering molten gold, 

Defying these the world to hold. 

Rain, rain, rain, 

Pain, pain, pain, 

The rainbow conquers defiant rain 

And God heals heart and brawn and brain. 


[28] 


ODORS 


Give me a field rubbing arms with the road, 

The swish of scythes and the creak of a load, 
The new-mown grass into haycocks made, 

Men in the sun and a jug in the shade. 

Finest of all, shall I tell you? Well, 

Odor of hay in the fields that I smell. 

Give me a marsh dripping-wet with the tide. 
Waving and tossing, rank grass stretching wide, 
Pool like a mirror, where lads come to plunge, 
Reflecting the sky where wood-swallows lunge. 
Finest of all, shall I tell you? Well, 

Odor of salt in the sea that I smell. 

Give me a farm with buildings of red, 

A barn and a coop and a ramshackle shed, 
Acres of fields and whispering corn, 

Pastures and brooks and calves newly born. 
Finest of all, shall I tell you? Well, 

Odor of barnyards that I like to smell. 

Give me a road well rutted and brown, 

A distant church steeple clear marking the town, 
A road through the woodland, with flowers and 
bees, 

Fern-flowers and brooklets and birds in the trees. 
Finest of all, shall I tell you? Well, 

Odor of dew on the woods that I smell. 

Give me a shelter pitched far up the height, 

A bed made of spruce and a birch torch at night, 
A fire full of coals, with trout on the grid, 

A rasher of bacon and a dancing pot lid. 

Finest of all, shall I tell you? Well, 

Odor of grub that I hungrily smell. 


[29] 


MR. TOAD 


Hello, hello, hello, Mr. Toad, 

Hopping bow-legged down the road, 

Dressed in your dungarees of brown, 

Always bugging for farmers in town, 

Working unnoticed night and day, 

Industrious friend, when do you play? 

Hello, hello, hello, Mr. Toad, 

Warty and brown like the rusty road, 

Your giant mouth slit from ear to ear 
Guards our gardens through the year. 

There is glistening gold in your kindly eyes, 

But your pop-eyed beauty men seldom surmise. 

Hello, hello, hello, Mr. Toad, 

Take my best wishes down the road, 

I pray that I may serve my town 
Half as well as my friend in brown; 

May I grub unnoticed night and day 
As I hop or stop on my human way. 


[30] 


MR. CROW 


Hello, hello, hello, Mr. Crow, 

All dressed up in your black cut-a-way, 

Lord of the fields and king of the day, 

Strutting and grubbing and worming you go. 

Hello, hello, hello, Mr. Crow, 

Up in your treetop, spying the way 
From rosy dawn till close of day, 

Cawing and warning and flapping you go. 

Hello, hello, hello, Mr. Crow, 

I am walking, not winging my earthly way, 
Grubbing and working while you strut all day. 
Good luck, Mr. Crow, as you noisily, lazily go. 


THE MIRACLE OF THE CLOD 

The miracle of the clayey clod 
Is worked by the creative will of God, 

From garden soil as black as ink 
Spring tulips dressed in green and pink, 
Speaking to us of friends and love, 

Fair flower-lips touched from above. 

Down in the florist’s pot of clod 
There moves the master-will of God, 

A cyclamen struggles toward the light, 
Each petal whitened by the upward fight 
Has at its heart a patch of purple stain 
To hint that fragrance’s price is pain. 

Then push from the dark clayey clod 
A dozen miracles wrought by God, 

Like angel-maidens, roses blush, 

Their cheeks like sunsets’ final flush, 

Each bursting bud to beauty bom, 

Let him who breaks them mark the thorn! 

My lips are mute, I watch the clod 
Transformed by the miracle-working God, 
The tender, twining, twisting pea 
Inchworms to light and bear for me 
The pinkest peas, bringing the thought 
Of friends not with riches bought. 

Again His spirit moves the clod 
With will to fashion flowers of God, 
Carnations multi-colored bloom 
To sweeten fever-ladened room. 

I prize each bloom so sweet and pure, 
Beyond all flowers the pinks endure. 


[32] 


Sometimes a Burbank shares with God 
The power to draw life from the clod, 

He strips the cactus of its thorn 
And in its place man’s food is born. 

Why doubt that change comes to human clod 
Transforming brute to soul that lives for God? 


[33] 


THE SEA 


Give me the sea with white, washed dunes, 
Swift-rowing gulls, the shrill of loons, 
Machine-gun puts of fisher-craft, 

The noise of bathers on a raft, 

The marshes green, the noiseless tide, 

The silver borders stretching wide, 

The dark-haired pines, the hardwood hill, 
The bushes near where sparrows thrill. 
Wee flies of May and swallowtails, 

The distant sea and flitting sails, 

Bright buttercups and lilac bloom, 

Jip’s joyous bark, the thunder boom, 

The voyage out with lines and hooks, 

The hikes and treks to shady nooks, 

The pipes and chats and sings at night 
By flickering fire and yellow light. 

Give me my friends in camper’s togs, 

I’m happy then, come sun or fogs. 


[34] 


SQUATTERS BY THE SEA 

We squat in the sand by the seashore’s rim, 
Where the waves pound the beach with a vim, 

We fill our chests with salt sea air 

And watch the shells come from their lair. 

The weeds wash high on the silver sands; 

Like ships, they have voyaged from distant lands. 
Wild geese wedge over, wing answering wing, 
These gossipy talkers the north news bring. 

We search the sands for chunks and chips, 

Each one with a tale if endued with lips, 

They were smashed from ships going down in a 
gale, 

They could tell of the struggle, the drowning wail. 
Or perchance they might tell us glad tales of 
mirth, 

That were swapped by sailors who drop o’er the 
earth. 

We gather them up all salt-soaked and dried, 

To kindle our fire as we squat by the tide. 

Our fire is small, just comfy for four, 

The flames warm our hearts, open friendship’s door. 
We put bacon and frankforts onto the grid, 

Fill the pot up with tea and put on the lid, 

Then out come the dainties, sandwiches, cake, 
With pickles and olives and fruit in their wake. 
Most wonderful appetites have we four, 

We stuff and we stuff and call for more. 

The secret of squatting down by the brine 
Is not in the voice of the wind’s weird whine, 

Is not in the talk of geese or of gulls, 

Is not in the chips washed in from the hulls, 

Is not in the swish of the saline sea, 

Is not in the grub, is not in the tea. 

It is hearts in the flame that capture me, 

And lure m^ to squat with the three by the sea. 

[ 35 ] 


THE STRANDED SCOW 


I climbed aboard a stranded scow, 

Explored her ribs from stern to bow; 

Her boat-bones bleach upon the beach 
Where lazy water-fingers hardly reach 
Her battered hulk. She hopes the tide 
Will float her to the ocean wide, 

She lives again, each rising flood, 

The days when like a beast with boiling blood 
She strained at towing, hempen rope, 

Deck-full of dross, the Skipper’s hope, 

His fortune staked on hold of grain, 

Or stone, or lumber, traders’ gain. 

I fancy that she feels the rain, 

The drubbing of the angry sea again, 

And mocks the foam-flecked, soapy brine, 
Laughs at the wild wind’s ghostly whine. 
Perhaps at dock she hears the noise 
Of careless, wharf-rat city boys, 

The shouts of workmen on the pier, 

Now that the sandy shore’s her bier. 

It must be rough at last to reach 
The journey’s end upon the beach, 

To wait and watch and think and pray 
That ere the ebbing of another day 
The swift-moving, silent, swirling tide, 

Will bear you to the ocean wide. 

Good-bye, Old Hulk, I’ll tell them how 
I think it feels to be a stranded scow. 


[36] 


GULL MOODS 


Like men full of deadening dope 
Grey gulls sit and sleep and mope 
With heads pulled tightly in 
Till wing-blades meet their chin, 

Or gliding soft and light 
Like spooky phantom spright, 

Taxiing like airplane thing 

With motor stalled, on wide-set wing. 

They scream with fiendish glee, 

Busy-billed as gabby sewing-bee. 

Again, they cradle busily, 

Rocking and dipping in the sea, 

Testing their wings and falling back 
With noisy, sudden, splashing whack. 

Tired, they stilt upon a buoy 
Like gunner's lifeless wood decoy, 

Or preening, pluming, scraping, bowing, 
Their feathered garments proudly showing, 
They gossip gaily, glibly, merrily 
About the price of fish in the market-sea. 


[37] 


THE WIND 


Whis-sh, whis-sh, whis-sh, 

’Tis the sacred hymn of the salty marsh 
Breathed through the weird wind’s whine 
By the Maker of Marshes, Creator Divine. 

Whis-sh, whis-sh, whis-sh, 

The grasses whisper, the wavelets wash, 

A voice is singing a song to me 

Of the straw-tinged marsh and the inky sea. 

Whis-sh, whis-sh, whis-sh, 

A voice I plainly hear in the swish. 

With me in the chill, in my old canoe, 

The Hunter of Hunters is ducking too. 


[38] 


EXPLORERS 


God-guided geese so high, 

Gossiping glibly as you fly, 

Wedging south with weary wing, 

News from the Friendly North you bring. 

Your flag was planted in Arctic snow 
Where bravest Pearys dare not go, 

Yet no one offers to medal you, 

No crowds greet you as you pass through. 

You sail with God for guide 
O’er deserts of snow and ice-flows wide: 
Great Pilot Divine, please compass me 
As I walk o’er land or wing o’er sea. 


[39] 


THE FOG 


Tonight a fog lies over the bay, 

Far out a vessel is horning its way, 

The mist has completely blotted the light 
And dampened the buoy-gong’s signal of right. 
The eye can not pierce the night on the brine, 
Nor ear hear the horn through the wild wind’s 
whine. 

I pray that the vessel may come safely home 
Through the fog and the chill and the night and 
the foam. 

Our lives, like the ship, voyage over life’s bay, 
The fog chills and blinds us and blots out the way, 
The mists quench the brightness of truth’s beacon 
light 

And dampen the God-given warnings of right. 
Because eye cannot pierce the veil on the brine, 
And ears become filled with the wild wind’s whine, 
I pray that we miss not our heavenly home, 
Through the fog and the chill and the night and 
the foam. 

Like ships we must compass and chart o’er life’s 
bay, 

We are guided by Christ, “the truth and the way,” 
Our doubts He dispels, for He is “the light,” 

The ringer of joy-bells, the champion of right. 

As of old He walks to us over the brine 
And His voice calms the wild wind’s whine. 

I pray that His hand may pilot me home 
Through the fog and the chill and the night and 
the foam. 


[ 40 ] 


MUD AND SLIME 


Slip out at noon, O tide, 

So full of mud and slime, 

Go to the ocean wide, 

Moved by a power divine. 

Come back tonight to me, 

Free from the mud and slime, 
Purged by the wind and sea, 

The work of a power divine. 

Sometime I’ll go out like the tide, 
Heart soiled with mud and slime, 
Purged in love’s ocean wide, 

The work of a heart divine. 

Come back? It matters not to me, 
If God can cleanse of mud and slime 
I’d rather slip like tides to sea, 
Moved by a heart and power divine. 


[41] 


STRANDED SHIPS 


Tired old ship, Heigho! Heigho! 

Whence cometh thou and where do you go? 

You look dejected out there in the mud, 

Left by the heartless, retreating flood 
A thousand yards or more from your goal 
Over the bar and beyond the shoal. 

I’ve been stuck in the oozy, foul slime 
With canvass down, grimly waiting the time 
When the water-fingers would touch my side 
And lift me on arms of the swelling tide. 

Cheer up, Old Ship, with your masts in the moon, 
The gods of the sea will come for you soon. 


[42] 


SEAS AND SOULS 


I have seen the deep sea’s silent flow 
Like thick-poured lead in molten glow, 

A mirror for the dancing, zig-zag moon, 

Echoing the laugh of a crazy loon. 

I have seen the deep sea mixed with blood, 

A twisting, turning, tortured flood, 

Like a wounded, weeping, lily-child, 

Or tossing froth like a brute gone wild. 

I have seen a soul deep-stained with blood, 

Its full-veined passions turned to flood, 

Prostrate like a beaten, bruised child, 

The Censor stunned, the soul gone wild. 

I have seen the sky of Syria stained with blood, 
The crime of Jerusalem’s drunken human flood, 
The closing chapter of the promised Child 
Who lived and bled for a world gone wild. 


[43] 


THE TIDE 

From study pane I watch the tide, 

Between land-fingers ebb and flow, 

At ebb the leaden flats stretch wide, 

Or shine with sun like silver glow, 

Mercury lakes where boats have died, 

And tilt far over on their beam 
To float no more on swollen tide. 

Out yonder sprawls the mirror-stream, 
Reflecting clouds, a scene divine, 

Unrippled, save where breezes kiss, 

Or rowing gulls splash on the brine. 

God cannot bring new life to this! 

Fool man am I to sit and doubt 
That tides will float these craft, 

To think that death is strewn about, 

That God forgets snails on the raft. 

The winds will blow, the gulls will scream 
The boats at stony moorings strain, 

And ripples move upon the stream. 

The noiseless tide will gain and gain, 

The boats will rise, alive will toss, 

A tug come puffing up the brine 
With barge in hand, deck-full of dross, 

And I shall see His power divine. 

Fool man am I to sit and doubt, 

To think the soul has lost its life, 

To think when death seems strewn about 
That God forgets us in the strife. 

Is man not greater than a snail? 

Is life not more than idle dream? 

May we not dare to hoist Hope’s sail? 

The winds will blow, the gulls will scream 
And crafts at rocky moorings strain, 

But noiseless love is sure to gain. 

We learn that those we say have died 
Just wait, like boats, the rising tide. 


CONFLICT 


The day is dying in the west, 

We watch the swirling, heaving tide, 

Our souls are seeking sunset rest, 

Our spirits roam the ocean wide. 

Our hands delight to feel and trace 
The glassy rocks stewed in hell’s heat, 

Now chilled, their crystal flinty face 
Is hammered by Poseidon’s ponderous feet. 

Peace flutters bird-like to our soul, 

Conflict is conquered, we are lost in love, 

A school of new-born minnows track the shoal, 
Soft-shoeing stillness stalks the sky above. 

The school is startled! Why the rush? 

Why ten thousand wiggling, silvery lives? 
Splashes of murder break the hush, 

Conflict has come to finny men and wives. 

Scream, black-helmet-wearing gull, 

Squawk, graceful murder-wishing thing, 

Fish, fishing fish, till each is full, 

Murder to murderers you justly bring. 

The world’s on fire in the west, 

The sea’s a stage for conflict’s shock, 

We came craving peace and rest 
But found Prometheus on his rock. 


[45] 


THE NEW YEAR 


Flimsy flakes of fluffy snow 
Floating leisurely to ground, 

Shreds shed from Winter’s brow, 

Dancing without rhyme or sound. 

Crystals falling in the bay, 

Born to dance and quickly die, 

On land they form a whited way, 

Trackless stretching to the sky. 

Over the carpet smoothly laid 
And tacked securely to the ground, 

Comes a winsome Stranger Maid 
Bearing gifts for her yearly round. 

Bringing costly gifts and rare, 

Pure purposes and unpenned pages, 
Withered skin and lank gray hair, 

Folly of fools and wisdom of sages. 

Life to cooing babes in baskets, 

To youth, distinction and high hopes, 

To age, tears and pain and caskets, 

Gifts for laymen and for popes. 

Come, glad New Year with gifts of smiles, 
Come, sad New Year with bitter tears, 
Come with your unsoiled virgin miles, 

Come with your sorrow and ugly biers. 


[46] 


EASTER 


There are many men and women on the last long 
mile 

Whose feet are blistered and who force a smile, 

In life’s gruesome garden they have suffered loss, 

They have climbed their Calvary, felt the cruel 
cross, 

Sick and suffering, fearful, faint and failing, 

Clouds are gathering, lightning cracking, thunder 
wailing. 

Help the heart-throb, Neighbor! Feel! Empathize! 

Grip their pierced hands, smile and sympathize! 

Hold hope high, clear the clouds, ’tis morning! 

After storm the rainbow, after night the dawning. 

Do not deny the fact of sorrow or death’s ugly 
sting, 

But proclaim the triumph—bells of Easter, ring! 


[47] 


RED ROSE 


You are lovely in the spring, 
Blushing thing, thorny thing, 
Other flowers are dead 
But you lift your head, 

Glad to bloom, 

Killing gloom. 

Into autumn’s chill you bring 
Summer’s beauty, ruby thing, 
May we feel the surge 
Of the summer urge 
Bringing cheer to all 
In the chilly fall. 


[48] 


AUTUMN 


Autumn heavy-loaded brings 
Ripened fruits and gorgeous things, 
Lazy, wiggling, falling leaves, 

Golden grain in giant sheaves, 
Sun-kissed pumpkins in the field, 
Piles of apples—bounty’s yield. 
Maples touched with flaming reds, 
Brookside elms with yellow heads, 
Straw-tinged waving meadow hay, 
Purple hills along the way, 

Paint pots splashed at end of day 
As Evening Painter goes his way. 
Setters smelling in the brush, 

Noisy partridge’s sudden flush, 

Leafy pathways, signs of snow, 

A “jawing” jay and cawing crow, 
Flickering evening campfire light, 
Orion marching up at night, 

Friends with frost-touched hair, 
Signs of autumn everywhere. 


[49] 


THANKSGIVING 


I would be thankful for the dreamy night 
Knitting up the ravelled sleeve of care, 

For slivering golden daggers bright 
Piercing Night’s velvet garment everywhere. 

I would be thankful for the wakening kiss 
Of Dawn’s gladsome sleep-dispelling light, 
Hinting that it’s time to kiss a little Miss 
And pray to God that you may live aright 
And high resolve to shun all things amiss. 

I would be thankful for my mother’s lily love 
Turning home to heaven and Eden bower, 

For Daddy, partner of my Dad above, 

For brother-sister-days of sun and shower. 

I would be thankful for my wife and home, 

For days ’mid war’s red ruin o’er the sea, 
Though I would rather rock at home than roam 
The earth or steam the freakish heaving sea. 

I would be thankful for the evening book, 

Dead friends who speak through page to me, 
For room-high tomes, my quiet reading nook; 
But better still are living books for company. 

I would be thankful for all that others shun, 

The crippled child, the beggar on the street, 

To lonely lad and lassie may I carry fun 
That they also may be thankful when we meet. 


LUCKY BOY 


If you feel a true heart standing by, 

If you look into eyes as clear as sky, 

If you chum together as boy with boy 
With a womanly woman, not a tinseled toy, 

If you share life’s every golden gift 
And are sure of a partner’s steady lift, 

If thought meets thought and brain meets brain, 
If life and love flow and glow and gain, 

If you’ve shuffled well Life’s greasy pack 
And unslung Care’s load from your aching back, 
You may laugh at honor or college degree, 

If love sings sweetly her song to thee: 

These gifts are the royal roadway to joy, 

If you’ve found these, you’re lucky, My Boy! 


FATHER 


Thank God for my Father-Provider, for his blood 
which he gave to me pure, 

Thank God for his wisdom and counsel, for the 
birch which I needed I’m sure. 

His word, it was law, it was order; his muscle 
I declare was not slim, 

But his love spoke in accents much louder and 
you bet I would fight hard for him. 

He may have some slight imperfections, so hard 
for his laddie to see, 

But to him I trace predilections which connected 
The Father and me. 

Through wood and o’er mountain we’ve treked it. 
We chums have followed the trail, 

With rod or with gun we have packed it, 

In search of brook trout or quail. 

Of all the “Good Sports” who go romping, or 
plunge in the lake for a swim, 

There are none who tote deer in or duffle, who 
hold a camp-candle to him. 

He’s my partner, and surely my hero, but finest 
of all he’s My Dad. 

He’s my compass, my north star, my comrade, 
the best guide a lad ever had. 

Though my woodway leads over the mountains 
or down into life’s blackest vale, 

My friends, bet your dollars to doughnuts that 
My Daddy I never will fail! 

And after our romping is over, our guns cleaned 
and lines have been dried, 

I’m sure to the hunting grounds yonder, My 
Father, The Father, will guide. 


[52] 


SHADOWS 

When the shadows lengthen and the crows come 
cawing home, 

When the rosy-fingered sunset frets heaven’s 
spaceless dome, 

When crickets tune their fiddles and dance around 
each blade, 

When babies kneel by mamma’s knee and face 
darkness unafraid, 

When stars hang out their lamps and shadows 
deepen into night, 

When day is done, I hear Mother telling me the 
way of right. 

Now pain has come to her, a shadow dark and 
drear, 

God will protect my mother, He is always near. 
The work of day, life’s laughter, tinseled fun, 
Are all eclipsed today like Calvary’s noonday sun. 
While surgeon works with scalpel, tears hide hope, 
Around my heart is tied a hangman’s rope. 

I thought that ill could not come to you, 

My mother dear, who saw me bravely through 
Youth’s cradle days. A common, silly fool, 

I’ve failed to see the shadows on the pool, 

As evening turned from blush to dingy gray 
And shut from view the joys of life’s glad day. 

As high human idols ’round me crash and fall, 

I fight the cynic sneer; I rise to call 
The world a fake, a lie, a brazen cheat! 

But when I look at you I dare not repeat 
My slander. Your life is like a gospel song, 

A purge to all that is mean or low or wrong. 


[S3] 


To-day the sun is high but shadows drear 
Press close upon me, yet I feel God near. 

Please guide, I ask, the surgeon's hand, 

Make known to hooded-nurses Thy command. 
For my Mother’s life I plead, I pray, to-day, 
Come sun or shadows, Father, have Thy way. 


[ 54 ] 


THE HEARTACHE IN THE CITY 


Where the city lights are winking 
And the motor cars are blinking, 

Where the pulse of life is throbbing 
And the broken hearts are sobbing, 

Where the crazy minds are whirling 
And the smoke of trade is curling, 

Where the men are money-making 
And the women sin-partaking, 

Where the city crowds are thronging 
And the souls of men are longing, 

A heart is aching in the city, 

A soul is reaching out for pity. 

There is One, dear heart, who finds you, 
Understands and bids His angels mind you, 

He is walking on the smoky city heights, 

He is seeking heavy hearts beneath the lights. 
May He soothe the souls’ sad sobbing, 

Heal the cause of tired throbbing, 

Bring repose to whirling, weary brain, 

Until the lost feel found again. 

Dear Father, amid the blinking 
And the wanton, wicked winking 
Where city life is thronging, 

A heart is waiting, longing. 


[55] 


THE PARK 


If you seek a Sunday lark, 

Join the humans in the park, 

Squat on a homely, painted bench 
Beside a hobo, dude or wench. 

Watch men as they stop or pass 
Or sprawl like dead upon the grass. 

One stops to rest his wooden leg, 

And tells the story of his peg. 

A “Dago” strolling out for fun 
Halts by the fountain with his son. 
Rusty coat and silk cutaway 
Rub on the benches by the way, 
Laundered shirt and lily cuffs, 

Brush dirty, ragged, parky toughs. 

The Church Polks heed the silvery knell 
Of Brimstone Comer’s salvation bell, 
But soldier, sailor, civilian, all 
These bench-folks ignore the call. 

The fountain drizzles in the pool, 

Where pigeon-commoners come to cool 
Their sand-parched city throats, 

And laddies sail their tiny boats. 

Here highbrow, lowbrow, rich and poor, 
Pass through the democratic door, 

All stripped of labels in the park, 

Hearts kindled by the human spark. 


[56] 


BABY 


Wiggling, squalling babe from heaven, 

To God’s co-partners newly given, 
Fragrant as frailest, fairest flower 
Sent from the Creator’s flower bower. 

Strong hands guide you, baby, to-day 
As you learn to toddle o’er life’s way; 
Mother will teach you word by word 
The prayer which babies lisp to God. 

You came to us, baby, from afar, 

Eyes twinkling like the morning star, 

With cheeks like sunrise’ rosy glow, 

A bit of heaven sent here below. 

Package of laughter, love and life, 

God’s gift to man and his partner-wife, 
You more than earthly human clod, 

What shall we do if you return to God? 

We know God loves the patter of tiny fee\ 
As children play in the heavenly street, 
But please do not take our baby away, 
Let us play with our love for to-day. 


[57] 


SOLDIER STUFF 


A haunted look of stark surprise 
Flashed from his mirthful baby-eyes, 

The day the rooster bold and red, 

His flock against Baby Brother led. 

Startled, Brother dodged the feathered bluff, 
Then armed with spoon, he showed his soldier 
stuff. 

He may lead the march of history's van, 

He may beard the world, a Master-Man, 

He may kindle freedom’s fiery flame, 

He may teach us all to mark his name, 

But no hour can match his victory o’er the bluff, 
The day his soul first stirred with soldier stuff. 


[58] 


MADONNA 


I know a little blondy girl 
Who mothers baby doll; 

A bald-head, not a curl 
It has, but it gets all 
The love a girl can give, 

Hugs and kisses too, 

Like babes who really live 
It gets spankings not a few. 

She is my New Madonna, 

This Ma with baby doll, 

You bet your shoes I’m gonna 
Give her all, yes, all 
The respect and love 
An ignorant man can show, 

For though I’m not versed on angels up above, 
I can spot a mother’s love when I see it grow. 


[ 59 ] 


JAKE 


I have a greatheart grocer-friend, 

If trouble comes a hand he’ll lend, 

He’ll boost a pard, a dollar stake, 

His Svenska name is Yiddish Jake. 

He’s not a rogue, he’s not a saint, 

He treats me rough but I make no complaint, 
He talks and jokes and thinks he sings, 

Every inch a man Jake rings. 

He ducks and smiles at preacher-stuff 
And tries his parson-friend to bluff. 

The price he asks, it is a skin, 

I count my cash with sickly grin. 

As food mounts higher in the skies 
I look hard and square at Jakie’s eyes, 

Then think of jokes and talks and sings 
Till I forget these grocery things. 


THE GUIDE 


Seventy odd summers’ winds have scorched him, 
Seventy odd winters’ winds have chilled him, 
Streaking white into his beard, marks of time’s 
flood, 

But leaving the iron of the trail in his blood. 

His eagle eye has marked the black bear, 

He has tracked the mink and otter to their lair, 
His muzzle-loader has felled the mighty moose, 
Also lesser woodsters, rabbits, partridge, goose. 
Every mark is an open page: deer droppings, 
Otter runs, bent twigs, fox scratchings. 

On the river he pulls a man’s blade. 

He boils in the sun unscorched, snoozes the sleep 
of innocence in the shade. 

With his rod he out-cripples the crippled fly, 

He drags a hen feather where the biggest trout lie, 
He has guided India’s princes from o’er the sea, 
Yet he fusses like a father over me. 

His patience matches Job’s in length, 

His muscles match Sampson’s strength. 

Man of the wild wet woods and the open sky, 
Man of the whispering long-haired trees, 

Friend of the birds, bugs, beaver, bees, 

May seventy more summers scorch him, 

May seventy more winters chill him. 


[61] 


“HER TRAMP” 


He’s just a dirty rag-a-muff, 

A noisy, squirming, boyish bluff, 

With roguish, smiling, sooty face, 
Handicapped in life’s mad race, 

“Her Tramp.” 

He’s just an undeveloped tough 
Whom life is treating mighty rough, 

No one to care, no one to love, 

Except the Heavenly Father above, 

“Her Tramp.” 

He comes to church a rag-a-muff, 

A bunch of slang and dirt and bluff, 

He always seeks the preacher’s wife, 

Who loves this chip of city life, 

“Her Tramp.” 

She scrubs his hands and face 
And shares with him her place, 

The pew deep-center by the door, 

His legs don’t reach the floor, 

“Her Tramp.” 

In heaven I shall not be surprised 
To learn that Christ came in him disguised, 
So I do my level best to please 
This dirty lad, “the least of these,” 

“Her Tramp.” 


[62] 


/ 


TIME, THE THIEF 

Old Man Time, packed with joy and grief, 

I charge you straight that you’re a thief! 

You stole our school with rot and decay 
And allowed the wreckers to cart it away; 

True that the yard and lawn are there 
But the boys are gone and the ground is bare. 

I’d like to walk the path to school 
Where we courted and fought and broke each rule, 
But you’ve stolen the whispering bordering trees, 
The flower Edens and buzzing bees; 

Thief of familiar dirty faces, 

Thief of familiar oldtime places. 

Where is the freedom we knew as boys? 

Where are the bare-skin swimming joys? 

Where have you hidden my worms and pole? 
Where are ball and bat, also puck and goal? 

You have given them all to the cruel city, 

Old Thief Time, you are void of pity. 


[63] 


SAINT PETER AND THE PLATES 


The greatest creation of God is a boy, 

A bubbling, emotional, wellspring of joy; 

To win him to Christ we work early and late— 
But finally lose him, to save a cracked plate. 

Old folks must die, and middle-age too, 

Who’ll run our church when seniors get through? 
“The boys will, of course,” cries the clear voice 
of Fate, 

“If we do not lose them while saving a plate.” 

Dishes and silverware, chairs and the like, 

At the end of this world will vanish from sight, 
But yonder in Heaven a boy will wait fate, 

He was driven from church to save an old plate. 

As the high court assembles, there appears a 
small band, 

Each woman is bearing a plate in her hand, 

“See what we’ve saved! Open quickly the gate!” 
But Peter must try them, so tells them to wait. 

“Place the young culprit over there in the dock.” 
A boy scout, in uniform, stands facing the flock, 
“We would know your defence, boy, ere we pro¬ 
nounce fate.” 

“Pray, Sir, it all started, Sir, over a plate.” 

“You see, it was this way—we wanted a supper— 
But the ladies protested, ‘God’s dishes would 
suffer,’ 

We wanted to work for our Christ, on the level! 
But found we weren’t wanted, so went to the 
Devil.” 

The boy’s courage fails him, he sinks to his knees, 
“O Saint Peter, don’t blame me! Forgive me! 
Oh! Please!” 


[64] 


The women look on without sorrow or pity— 

They feel fully justified—with their plates from 
the city. 

Of a sudden, the boy in the docket is gone. 

In his place stands The Master, His eyes flashing 
scorn, 

His tender lips quiver—“It is the Lord’s wish, 

To save the lad’s soul, though he break every 
dish.” 

It’s not that we willingly hurt a good boy, 

Cloud his ambitions and curtail his joy, 

But we forget, in our fervor to save the church 
dishes, 

That we crush a boy’s soul, when we quench his 
clean wishes. 


[ 65 ] 


UNDER THE STACKS 

It comes to man to do his bit in days of sin and 
strife, 

It may be on the battlefield or in the whirl of city 
life, 

It comes to some to live “up town” where life is 
green and clean, 

While others toil amid the grime of shop and dull 
machine. 

And churches serve beneath the stacks and cranes 
and massive hoist, 

Believing that beneath a frock here works the 
Toiler Christ. 

Let other churches, built of stone, parade their 
wealth and pelf, 

Employ their silk-hat-ministry and bound their 
world with self, 

But let us joy in touching men down where steam 
hammers ring, 

Down where men shout and swear and sport and 
spree and sprawl and sing, 

Down under stacks and ships and smoke, we toil 
and try and teach, 

And preach and play and plug and pray, His 
workmen all to reach. 

We hear The Carpenter ’mid the noise as He 
challenges careless crew, 

Who care not for churches of costly stone nor 
for splendor of silken few, 

But who hunger and thirst, though they know it 
not, for the touch of a Saviour Friend, 

For the Toiler-Christ who sweats and stands 
where men over benches bend. 

So under the stacks and ships and smoke, we 
serve and sing and slave, 

And preach and play and plug and pray, His 
workmen all to save. 

[ 66 ] 


THE TOILER 


O God, what shall I say to dry the mother’s tears? 
What comfort to the comrade of the thrifty, 
toiling years? 

She says, “God took her mate away,” 

She heard the angel speak the day 

Death’s black wings flicked the smoky lights, 

The night he went to death upon the city heights. 

O God, what shall I say to babes and boys 
Whose zest for life and games and toys 
Lies dead, like ashes in a burnt-out grate, 

Hearts curdled and rebellious at their fate? 
Under the blazing stars Nellie knelt to pray, 
Asking her other Father, Death’s chill hand to 
stay. 

Thou art a Father, will you please explain, 

Or must I carry comfort cold and vain? 

“He worked his life away.” Yes, God, I hear. 
“He lies upon toil’s altar, not a common bier. 
Crucified by work! I did not decree the end. 
Tell them to trust the Toiler’s Truest Friend.” 


[67] 


OUR CANOE 


We fill our canoe up with duffle 
And ease it into the sea, 

The Wife bathes her blade in the riffle 
And pushing the stern blade is “Me.” 

Our blood flows fast to the paddles, 

As briny waves spank the keel, 

We leap like riders in saddle, 

She quivers from stern-post to heel. 

We hunt for a spot on the lee of an isle, 

Then beach our canoe and rest for awhile, 

We gather up chips and kindle a fire, 

Squat close to the blaze, hang a pot on a wire, 
The bacon starts sizzling, the tea lifts the lid, 
The sun glows in glory like coals ’neath a grid. 
Somehow the grub’s different out here by the sea, 
So we paddle here often, Wifie and “Me.” 


[68] 


“LOOKIE LOCKS” 


I’ve heard them tell of Yukon spell, 

Of lure of gold in frozen dell, 

Where men like dogs to sledge are hitched, 

Face cold and storm, by gold bewitched, 

They see no poetry in the hills 
But sand with ore, potential bills. 

From “rim to rim” they stake their claim, 

Or “on the hill,” it’s just the same. 

As campers stopped to pick a sight 
To pitch their tent ere fall of night, 

With fragrant boughs prepare their bed, 

Their beans and bacon ’fore them spread, 

An Indian’s voice shrill pierced the hush, 

As faithful dogs obeyed his “Mush!” 

Abreast the tent, the Red Man stood, 

And grinned at White Man chopping wood. 

“White Man, him fool. Him lookie locks,” 

The Indian name for searching rocks, 

“Why lookie locks? Plenty of fish, of caribou!” 
The Whites just grinned and heard him through. 
To men whose goal was sand and rocks, 

Red put the quest, “Why lookie locks?” 

Then turned again to frozen trail, 

While Whites staked all, to fail. 

These men had pawned their ready cash, 

Left home and love on venture rash, 

Two years had lived on frozen trail, 

Poled rapids swift, heard wild beasts wail, 

Had staked their claims on stampede rush, 

Ate camper’s chuck, beans, bacon, mush, 
Between wool and fur, spoon-fashion dreamed, 
Broke camp at morn when daylight gleamed. 


[ 69 ] 


At last, there stood by sea-washed rocks, 
One man. No more he’d “lookie locks,” 
He’d learned to grin and turn his hand 
When told where fortune could be panned, 
He’d learned that better far than gold 
Is life and home and love to hold. 

Must man spend life in seeking rocks, 

Till Redskin asks, “Why lookie locks?” 


[70] 


THE SUMMIT 


“This tablet placed at the Centennial Exercises, July 4, 
1904, commemorates Nathaniel Hawthorne. He trod daily 
this path to the hill to formulate as he paced to and fro 
upon its summit his marvelous romances.” 

—Near the Wayside House. 

Old scaly spruce so high, 

With face pressed close against the sky, 

I envy you because you’ve talked 
With Hawthorne as he daily walked. 

Old hilltop path, well worn, 

His plodding feet each glad new mom 
Came here to pace the woody hill 
And woo Romance to do his will. 

Emerson, Aldrich, quaint Thoreau: 

It was your joy to know 
The master of immortal pen— 

Would that I had walked here then! 


WHITMAN AT EVENING 


I like Whitman’s prosy darts, 

His words and lines are parts 
Of Nature, not modelled art, 

But bone and brawn and heart. 

The clouds like dreams drift by, 
Flecking the changing, colored sky, 
Pink-dyed like Breton maiden’s blush, 
Stained by God’s sunset brush. 

Sailors beat their homeward way, 
Phantom-silent up the sunlit bay, 

But I do not envy them their play, 
Give me Whitman at the close of day. 

The Evening Painter, working fast, 
Changes the splendid scene, at last 
Brushing out the sun and sea, 

Leaving Walt alone with me. 


[72] 


“GUESS I GOT TM!” 


He was just a yellow mangy pup 
Playing childlike on the city street, 

Not worth the fleas ’twould take to fill a cup, 
You know how two dogs race and meet 
Pell-mell, full-tilt, and on the run, 

Chewing up each other’s hides for fun. 

Well, this bristly little cuss 
Struck the forward auto wheel. 

Man! It was a doggoned nasty fuss, 

The kind that makes a fellow feel 
Like he’d seen a friend struck down, 

Or watched a hearse pass through the town. 

He pulled himself together, sorter 
Set his teeth, grit flashing in his eye, 

Then he dragged his crippled quarter, 

Looking up at me he seemed to query, “Why?” 
The way he looked at me, you know, reproach¬ 
fully, 

Say, neighbor, I’d liked to kissed him. Gee! 

I picked him up, tender-like, 

Do you know, that bloody pup, 

Trembling, nestling, baby-like, 

Kinda got me when I gave him up. 

Man, my heart wuz tripping, beating 
Like a shepherd’s when his lamb is bleating. 

I’ve been thinking ’bout the pup, 

How my heart wuz wildly bumping 
When I picked the Redhead up, 

And wondering if God’s heart is thumping 
When He picks a crumpled human up, 

Crashed in the city like the crippled pup? 


[73] 


THOSE WHO PAY 


I’ve trudged the merry world awhile, 

Seen Broadway’s glitter, Rector’s style, 
Heard noisy laugh and sinner’s curse, 

Seen rovers going from bad to worse, 
Watched roses fade from cheeks of youth— 
Their souls sold cheap at pleasure’s booth, 
Their hearts raced wild amid the whirls 
Of jazz and wine and dancing girls. 

Here life looks gay, the future bright, 

With song and sin beneath the light 
Where waiters wind with steaming dish 
And passion grants youth’s every wish. 

Yes, life looks rosy, bright, and gay, 

Where souls seek fun in tinseled play, 
Where men meet storms with merry laugh 
And women merely scoff the gaff. 

I’ve trudged the merry world awhile, 

Seen bitter tears beneath the style, 

Seen sweetheart-mates bow heads in shame 
As treasured souls burned in the flame 
Of passion bought with woman’s work, 

The toil of those whom pleasure shirks. 
Gay life is stained with human blood, 

Tears cannot cleanse it with their flood. 

I’ve trudged the weary world awhile, 

Heard husbands sob, the wage of style 
And song and sin and sporting shame, 

Wee baby smiles, hearts feed the flame. 

Sin reaps rank crops, brings bitter blight 
In lives we love, not ’neath the light, 

For just as sin made our Master’s cross, 

The hearts of innocents pay for dross. 


[74] 


The wounded ask, “Do sinners win?” 

“Must love pay dear for grovelling sin?” 
Faith crushed and bleeding queries, “Why 
Is my cross heavy?” “Lord, I would die!” 
The “Why?” I cannot answer now, 

Nor can I tell the Innocent how 
Wrong shall be righted, sinners paid, 

But trust I will, though life be shade! 


[75] 


JIM 


Down by the sea is a little old shack, 

With a garden in front and a porch in back. 

It’s owner is Jim, my clam-digger friend, 

Who, when the war called, was willing to lend 
Five hundred dollars, for he knew the pain 
Of soldiering out in the mud and the rain. 

You can see him far out on the flat, 

With the rain beating down on his hat, 

And his back bent double over his rake, 

His feet in the mud, just for the sake 
Of the little old shack by the sea, 

Which is home no matter how humble it be. 

Jim’s grammar is crude, he often says “ain’t,” 
His life like his shack is minus of paint, 

His fingers are black from handling clams, 

They are bent like his speech with its “damns.” 
Some folks see merely the outside of him, 

But I see the heart of my neighbor Jim. 

My neighbors and I often bow as we meet, 
Exchange “How-d-do?” as we pass on the street. 
They fling out “Hello!” and sometimes they grin, 
For I am the fellow who hammers their sin. 

But my neighbor alone to me tips his hat 
In reverence to God; I like Jim for that. 

A carpenter fixed the shack’s inside up right, 

I can see by the gleam of the kerosene light. 

It may be a fact' that Jim’s outside is crude, 

Like his shack, he is paintless and rude, 

But inside I’m sure that Jim’s heart is right, 

In his soul, like in mine, flames a light. 


[76] 


I don’t like his “ain’ts” or his “damns,” 

The shell of my neighbor, digger of clams, 
But heaven’s not heaven, I’ll tell you that, 
’Less I see Jim digging out on the flat! 

For he alone of my neighbors touches his hat 
In reverence; God will like Jim for that. 


[77] 


THE CAPTAIN 


Launched on the Cape, his life sea-wet, 
Was baptized with brine, top-gallants set 
Like a white-winged clipper ship of old, 

To track the sea fearless and bold. 

Stern monarch of his ship-bound crew, 

His nature rough and wilful daily grew, 
Yet those who knew his sturdy ocean life, 
The stress and storm and stirring strife, 

Oft wrecked, adrift, chin-deep in death, 
Understood his defiant, weakening breath 
Even when the Great Captain’s Angel came 
To mark with death the skipper’s name. 

He did not reef or order down the sail. 

But held the wheel and faced the wail 
Of wind, the fog, the death-like chill, 

Faced his last wreck without a thrill. 

His life rammed on the rocks of pain, 
Broke like a hulk unfit to sail again, 

With every sail full-set he died, 

Then drifted westward with the tide. 


[78] 


HAVING MY PICTURE “TOOK” 


To Female Artist preacher went to have his pic¬ 
ture took, 

She perched me first upon a chair, in hand I held 
a book. 

She tweeked my thumbs and sprung my bones. 
She shifted scenes to get fine tones, 

She crooked my knee and bent my arm, 

She tipped my jaw to my alarm, 

She bade me laugh, then only smile, 

My eyes must sparkle and beguile. 

Each seventeen long wrinkled years 
We men push back our camera fears, 

It’s just to please our “better half” 

That we grin and face the camera gaff. 

A dozen plates I had to face 
Before I left the gruesome place, 

Exhausted, nervous, sore, I wait, 

Much crumpled, wait my camera fate. 


[79] 


ARROW-HEAD 


To-day I have been spading: strenuous toil, 

Stirring hundred-year-embers under the soil, 

An arrow-head, a stone history, turned to the 
light, 

Painted braves danced before me, spoiling for 
fight. 

Whoops, cries of agony, and chanted songs 
reached my ears, 

Algonquins and murdered men touched me across 
the civilized years, 

Workmen saw me and marked a man with a 
spade, 

Blind to the adventure we diggers had made. 


[So] 


“STICK IT” 


Sir Lauder, what is your comfort ’mid the whirl 
Of concerts, boards of trade, and music’s skirl? 
What message to the heavy hearts that bleed? 
What power of Providence or might to meet the 
need? 

“God’s will be done,” was the answer grave and 
fit, 

“Faith, faith we need. We 
Must 
stick 
it!” 

Salute the Scots facing flame and furious whirl, 
Bombs and bullets could not stop the skirl 
Of Piper-Shadows passing through the inky town, 
Mocking Death and Jerry as they mowed them 
down. 

What message did they leave, we humbly pray? 
What power of Providence or magic might had 
they? 

Sir Lauder knows the answer ’mid the whirl, 

He knows they did not stop their Scottish skirl; 
Their minstrel-message to the heavy hearts that 
bleed 

Is that the power of Providence fully meets life’s 
need. 

Faith’s flaming torch they bravely lit, 

Both dead and living say to us— 

“Stick 

it!” 

Sir Lauder, what is your message to the shirk? 
“Contentment,” said the Minstrel-Man, “and 
work.” 


[81] 


What message give to nation’s hearts that bleed? 
What power of Providence and might to meet 
their need? 

“Break our battleships,” was his answer bold and 
fit, 

“And build our friendships.” This is Faith— 

“Stick 

it!” 


[82] 


SKY PILOTS 


There are days of toil till weary, 

There are murky days and dreary, 

There are cloudy days and sunny, 

All divine. 

Be they sunny, cloudy, dreary, 

Be they murky, toil till weary, 

All the days I love you, 

Jack, Old Pal of Mine! 

Through days of joy and gladness, 

Through poky days of sadness, 

Chummy, chatty hours like Vegas shine. 
Memories bloom like crimson flowers, 

Turning bloody fields to Eden bowers, 

Filling life with beauty, 

Jack, Old Pal of Mine! 

Sky Pilot of the air is Jack, and of the earth am I, 
The rutted roads of France I trudged, he winged 
the treacherous sky. 

If on the earth you stay like me, or climb the 
vaulted dome, 

If far away we both do roam or toast our shins 
at home, 

You have my hand and head and heart, which 
mark man as divine, 

That I’m “Your Pal” and you remain, 

Jack, Old Pal of Mine! 


[83] 


OUR COLORS 


[THE 33RD UNITED STATES ENGINEERS] 

The sun was flaming and smiling and glinting 
upon our guns, 

Our men were to claim their colors and thrust 
themselves at the Huns, 

Each man held his rifle before him in response 
to the Colonel’s word, 

They would die to a man for the colors and the 
name of the Thirty Third. 

Hail to the Colonel’s daughter, slender and laugh¬ 
ing and fair, 

Holding the dear old colors against the crystal air 

From weak hands we receive our power, Khakied 
Knights setting forth to the fray, 

To die for this Girlie and others who gladden the 
world with their play. 

I can see the Miss with our colors, I can see the 
fit of our land, 

And the drums seem to beat out the challenge 
to fight for this little girl’s hand. 

We will die with a pick or a shovel uplifted with 
muscular arm, 

Ere the Hun to the Colonel’s fair girlie shall bring 
an iota of harm! 

The Christ said, “a child shall lead them.” His 
words are as true now as then, 

A child in the presence of power presented the 
banner of men. 

In France our maiden will lead us, inspire us 
during the fray, 

The Red, White, and Blue and the Girlie will 
always beckon the way. 


[84] 


ROSES AND CHRYSANTHEMUMS 


A cluster of rosebuds was brought to the bed of 
a soldier boy, 

Each bud bursting with beauty, bearing sympathy 
and joy; 

Slowly they unfolded their petals in the heat of 
the fevered room, 

Pure as the virgin morning, fragrant as summer’s 
bloom. 

The sufferer heard Christ speak of roses, alone; 
he vowed to be pure, 

For the beauty of roses, like Jesus, is purity, we 
may be sure. 

He prayed, “Dear Maker of Roses, and also the 
maker of me, 

May I, like these wonderful blossoms, a minister 
of beauty be.” 

Nearby stood three silent chrysanthemums, 
skinny and straight and tall, 

Seeming to ask the sufferer, “Then you love us 
not at all?” 

True, they were not as fragrant, each face like 
a yellow ball, 

But he loved them because they were changeless, 
their frowzy heads did not fall. 

They are the world’s enduring, less beautiful, and 
plebeian born, 

But they do not quickly wither and leave behind 
them a thorn. 


[ 85 ] 


HIS RETURN 


I hear the stirring military band 
Welcoming the return to Freedom’s land 
Of another sacrificing soldier brave, 
Journeying from grave to grave. 

Yesterday his mother said, “Good-bye,” 

His father gripped his hand, eye met eye; 
Out there he pressed forward with the tide, 
Fell, gasped, face forward died. 

At night they dug a couch of rest, 

The reward of those who stood the test; 
Then children placed flowers on the sod 
And widows said grateful prayers to God. 

His buddies march again to-day, 

Eager their homage of love to pay, 

With quickened pulse they swing, 

Step answering step, their hobnails ring. 

Drub, drub, drub, the measured beat, 

Scuff, scuff, scuff, of funeral feet, 

Bugles blow and rifles speak, 

Prayers rise, flags run to peak. 

The last fond look, the falling clod, 

The watered eyes, then home with God. 
The returning band is silent now, 

Alone, my service to my flag I vow! 


[86] 


JUSQU’ AU BOUT 
[To the End] 

He was tall and handsome, dressed in blue, 
French-clothed in high heaven’s richest hue. 
Wounded, worn, and weary—war’s triple mark; 
We walked together in the peaceful park. 

“To the end,” he vowed, “we’d carry through.” 
All France was saying gaily, “Jusqu’ ah Bout!” 

When you’re discouraged, out of work, 

When you’re tempted life to shirk, 

When your last month’s rent’s unpaid, 

When you’re sore, alone, “all in,” afraid, 

When your last friend parts from you, 

Smile, soul, talk French, say “Jusqu’ ah Bout.” 

When you’ve flunked your finals flat, 

When you’re wearing last year’s hat. 

When your credit’s zero at the store, 

When wolves bark outside your door, 

Just grit your teeth and carry through, 

Smile, soul, talk French, say “Jusqu’ ah Bout.” 


[87] 















































V 














































































































































. 





































Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 








